System Restart
by SunnyRea
Summary: Harold honors John's sacrifice and keeps himself alive. -spoilers for series finale-
1. Chapter 1

Harold limps down the stairs from the roof. He holds his hand hard against the gunshot wound in his side, keeps the pressure constant. He forces himself to breathe in and out normally because if he does not he may start hyperventilating and he cannot afford that right now. The wound in his side stabs and it reminds him of the ferry, of Nathan on a gurney – why is it that his friends always pay the price for him?

Harold feels his breath quickening. He stumbles and nearly falls down the remaining steps. He flings out a hand, dropping the gun he still holds, to plant his hand against the wall, stopping his fall.

"No…" Harold gasps to himself.

He has to make it down the steps, to the elevator and to a hospital. He will not let John's sacrifice be in vain however much Harold wishes that John did not make it.

"John…" Harold whispers then pulls in a deep breath, winces at the pain and keeps moving, leaving the gun behind.

He takes one step at a time; one step and one breath, one step down and further away from John left alone on a roof too far for Harold to stop him. Harold clenches his jaw and focuses on the stairs. Finally he reaches the door to the top floor and half stumbles out into the hallway. The building is empty, evacuated by the Machine despite the lack of need; all just a show for the two of them to save Harold yet again.

Harold stops and leans his hand on the wall as he stares at the tiled floor. He breathes deeply and feels a tear slide down his face.

Harold thinks of hearing John in his ear after John was shot telling him to stay away as Harold drove to his rescue. He thinks of seeing John make eye contact in the train station in Baltimore as Root threatened the security guard. He thinks of John calling his name in Central Park as Harold jumped into the car with Root in search of the Machine. He thinks of the way John looked at him on the bridge when Harold turned himself over for Grace; telling Harold they would come for him. He thinks of John up on the rooftop after Vigilance and Decima. He thinks of John shouting 'Finch' as he jumped in front of a bullet intended for Harold at the stock exchange. He thinks of seeing John appearing alive from the smoke of a Decima shoot out with the Machine in Harold's hand. He thinks of every time John stood in the way, pushed Harold aside, pulled him to safety; too many times to count, too much to ever pay back and impossible to repay now.

Harold smacks his hand against the wall with an echoing clap. "You didn't need to do that!" Harold breathes in sharper, faster and burns his lungs. "You should not have done that, John! It was my turn." Harold blows out a hard breath, shakes his head and smacks the wall again. "It was my turn!"

But it was also John's choice and Harold cannot take that away from him.

Harold rides the elevator down to the lobby, leaning heavily against the wall. Blood starts to drip from his fingertips now. He watches the numbers light up on the display to the right of the doors. Harold wonders if the countdown is for him, counting down the minutes he has left, the minutes he wasted.

Harold limps out onto the side walk and holds his arm up to hail a cab. A yellow cab stops two seconds later beside the curb in front of him. Harold yanks the door open and all but falls onto the back seat.

"Hospital…" Harold groans as he pulls his hand a bit away from his vest to see the expanded blood stain. "The closest hospital."

The driver looks back at him in confusion then his eyes bug out. "Shit… you should call…"

"Just a hospital!" Harold snaps. "Now!"

The driver whirls around and guns the engine just as Harold hears the sound of a missile streaking through the air above him. Then an explosion rocks the ground to their right, a block on the other side of the buildings. The driver gasps in shock, cars honk and Harold stops trying to force the tears back.

Harold walks into the ER, makes it to the intake booth with enough time to say, "Excuse me, I've been shot," before he collapses onto the tiled floor.

Harold wonders oddly about the history of tile becoming a standard for building flooring. He laughs with a wet sound to it as nurses begin to swarm around him. He sees a streak of blood he left on the thick glass of the booth above him. He wants to offer his handkerchief to clean it off.

"Sir?" One nurse's face hovers over his. "Can you tell me what happened, sir?"

Her eyes are blue and her hair reminds him of Harper Rose – or whatever her real name may have been.

"Sir, did you say you were shot? Can you tell us what happened?"

Another nurse tilts Harold's head the wrong way and Harold hisses in pain. The man starts to say something to another person Harold cannot see about a neck injury. Harold wants to tell him not to worry, that is an older mistake than today's.

Instead he says, "Why does everyone keep trying to save me?"

Harold wakes up in a tent; no, not a tent. The fabric around him is curtains, hospital curtains. He hears muffled voices which come from somewhere across the room. He is likely in a shared patient room, two to four beds.

Then the memories from before hit him in a rush – Root, the car chase, the voice in his ear, the virus, a sharp pain near his stomach, John in the vault, John on the roof far away from rescue. Harold cannot stop a small sound of anguish from escaping his lips. Harold shuts his eyes, wants to just sleep. Then he opens his eyes again. No doctor comes to check at the sound he made and Harold is glad for that. He glances around his small curtain enclosure for a clock. A small table beside his bed holds a cup, a plastic jug of water, his glasses and a clock. Harold puts on his glasses and reads three-sixteen AM on the face.

"Good," Harold whispers.

Night shifts at most hospitals are smaller, more over worked and less likely to notice a missing patient right away. Harold pushes back the covers and pulls up his hospital gown. A large white bandage covers his side. From the way he feels, Harold must have a good amount of morphine in his system. Harold shifts around, tests his body for stabbing pains and finds nothing new.

Harold shifts to one side and sets his feet on the floor. He listens for voices in the room but whoever was speaking earlier has stopped and hopefully gone. Harold stands up carefully, one hand still on the bed just in case. His feet hold him. Harold steps slowly from the curtains around his bed. He sees another bed in the room with a brunette woman; her eyes are closed and no one else sits near her. Harold walks across the room to the closet on his side. He opens it and frowns at the absence of his clothes. The hospital must have disposed of them what with blood stains on his shirt and vest.

"You could have saved the pants," Harold mutters.

He pulls the robe from the closet, the only clothing inside, and pulls it on.

Out in the hall, Harold walks as swiftly as he can, his limp less pronounced than usual with so many high grade pain medications in his system, and checks each door for some sort of staff area.

"Are you all right, sir?" Harold stops as a nurse stands in his path. She smiles, kind but obviously tired. "Are you looking for something?"

"Oh." Harold shrugs. "I couldn't sleep and my nurse said I should try to walk around." Harold puts a hand on his thigh. "My leg."

The nurse purses her lips at him. "Who is your nurse?"

Harold shrugs. "Shaniqua? Shakira? Something like that."

The nurse's face pinches in disapproval and her interest level drops dramatically. "Don't stay out of your room for too long, sir." Then she whips around him and continues on her rounds.

Harold continues past the nurse station, currently empty, and sees a door which reads 'staff only.' Harold turns the door knob and walks in without a pause. If he has learned one thing since passing the age of fifty-five, it is that almost anyone will believe you are just a poor, confused older person if you play it right. Fortunately the need for acting does not arise as the locker room is empty. Harold tries two locker doors, both locked, until he finds one which reads 'John Parsons.' Harold stares at the 'John' for two beats then tries the locker. It opens. Harold pulls out a set of blue scrubs, fortunately not made for someone who is six foot two but closer to Harold's size. Two lockers later, he finds a pair of slip on shoes a half a size too small but fine for now.

Harold walks back into the hospital halls, to the elevators, through the lobby and out a side door without one person stopping him to ask who he is or where he is going.

Harold makes his way to an apartment in the Bronx.

(He sits on the subway, smelling vomit from the other end of the car, one homeless person several seats down sleeping lengthwise across from Harold. Harold stares at the man and thinks of John with a thick gray beard and wild hair, wearing too many layers and a face inches away from suicide five years ago.)

Harold had twelve aliases – not counting the many one and done names he created for the numbers –with enough history and property attached to them to be real. Most of these aliases were blown with the rise of Samaritan and the aggression of Decima. However, Harold always has a backup plan within a backup plan. One of his aliases was always disconnected enough from the other eleven to survive any attack or exposure.

So, Harold gets off the subway at Bronx Park East, walks into the botanical garden and finds the hidden metal box with keys and a full wallet under the World of Birds sculpture. (If you're going to choose a theme for your aliases, you may as well go whole hog).

"Hello, Harold Raven." It seems fitting the name he saved for the worst of times starts with an R; just like those he lost.

Harold Raven's apartment is on the fifth floor of the building, with a view of the park and has been rent controlled for ten years. The kitchen is empty of food but the bathroom has pain medication and more first aid supplies than a normal residence should need. The bed is still made, a deep gray duvet; the closet contains three suits and the desk has a laptop from 2011.

"Okay…" Harold sits carefully at the desk, some of the pain medication wearing off now, and opens the laptop. "Let's find out…"

He boots the computer, taking longer than he would like, then begins hacking hospital records throughout the city for descriptions or names that match Detective Fusco and Ms. Shaw. He finds Fusco first at a hospital a couple subway stops away from their Chinatown hideout being treated for stab wounds. The prognosis appears good and not life threatening.

"Good," Harold whispers. "You'll be fine."

Detective Fusco has a son; he should still have his job. Fusco will be able to move on with just the memory of his friends and the war fought. He is a police officer after all; loss of a colleague on the job is not unknown. After all, he lost Detective Carter before, just like the rest of them.

"Where are you, Ms. Shaw?" Harold asks as he types.

No patient record matching her description appears in the system at the same hospital as Detective Fusco. If she was alive and wounded it would seem likely she should end up in the same hospital.

"Unless she left him there…" Harold mutters.

Knowing Ms. Shaw, if she survived, wounded or not, she would avoid the hospital. What with her incarceration with Decima, she had been less inclined than usual toward enclosed spaces or any form of outside control over her actions.

Harold hacks into the NYPD surveillance camera system. It is obviously not the same as the Machine; it has plenty of blind spots. It is, however, what Harold has. Harold stands up and searches the apartment for a second monitor or computer. He wants to be able to look at as many camera locations as possible at once. He finds a second laptop in the living room on the mostly empty bookshelf along with two larger monitors in the hall closet. He sets the two laptops up side by side, an extra monitor hooked up to each. He picks areas around Fusco's precinct and near their subway hideout to start with. He then pushes the chair back and lets them run.

An hour later, Harold sees a short woman appear from between two store fronts in Chinatown; from the entrance to the subway base. Harold smiles. "Good luck, Ms. Shaw."

Harold returns to the living room, his eyes heavy but his mind awake. He should probably find something to eat but it is only after six AM now and he does not feel very hungry. Harold stares around the empty apartment. His side starts to ache and if Harold looks down he expects to see blood. He should not be moving around so soon. If John were here, he would be shoving Harold into a chair or the bed to rest.

"But John is not here," Harold says out loud.

A shudder runs through him and he sighs heavily. That is when he notices the manila envelope on the floor near the front door. Harold frowns. He has no idea if the envelope was here when he arrived or if it just appeared now. He steps over and picks up the envelope. He does not bother to wonder if it could be a trap or anything insidious, he rips the top flap off.

The short, typed note on the first page reads:

–––

WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS, NO DOUBT, YOU WILL BE ALONE. I AM SORRY WE DECEIVED YOU BUT NEITHER OF US WOULD ACCEPT AN ALTERNATIVE OUTCOME.

WE BOTH WANT YOU TO LIVE AND BE HAPPY.

BUT I FELT YOU DESERVED JOHN'S WORDS AS MUCH AS MINE.

–––

Harold swallows and slides the top page off the others beneath it and lets it fall to the floor with the envelope. He starts to read:

–––

[2012_09_27: 22:19_SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _Do the math and figure out a way to bend your rules because he's my friend. He saved my life. Understand?_

 _I will not do this without him._ ]

[2012_10_18: 14:10_SUBJECT_PRIMARY ASSET:

 _I've spent some time feeling lost._

SUBJECT_SOFIA_CAMPOS:

 _What changed?_

SUBJECT_PRIMARY ASSET:

 _Someone found me, told me I needed a purpose._

SUBJECT_SOFIA_CAMPOS:

 _Sounds like a good friend._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY ASSET:

 _He is._ ]

[2013_05_09: 19:12_SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _This is the second time Root has been able to get to him. He went with her on purpose?_

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _YES._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _noise of surprise He wants to sacrifice himself if it's about the Machine… about you…_

 _Do you want him to live, no matter what? I'm asking you because that's what I want; that is what I am always going to do._

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _YES._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _Then let's make a deal._

[2013_12_31: 20:47_SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _Something you said once. About how sooner or later we'd both probably wind up dead._

SUBJECT_ADMIN:

 _I prefer later. After all, I'm the one who got you into this in the first place._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _I'm pretty sure I'd be dead already if you hadn't found me._

SUBJECT_ADMIN:

 _It's hard to say._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _Not really_.]

[2014_05_06: 11:47_SUBJECT_RELEVANT_ASSET:

 _Well, Mr. Payday there was our last lead on Finch. We're back to square one._

SUBJECT_ANALOG_INTERFACE:

 _The machine says we have other things to worry about._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _Greer has Finch. He's the only thing we have to worry about_.]

[2015_01_30: 10:32_ SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _I know you feel the same way about this. You know him as well as I do._

 _Probably better. You can see his whole life, can't you?_

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _I CAN._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _Then you know whenever this ends, he thinks he should be the one to end it._

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _HE WOULD NOT WANT YOU TO SACRIFICE YOUR LIFE._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _It's my life. I can do with it what I want._

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _YOU CAN._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _Maybe he is right, maybe his sacrifice is the right thing to do, but I don't think so. That's not his end. Agreed?_

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _YES._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _laugh He thinks he owes me something because I've protected him; I've shot people for him, saved his life but… laugh he's given me five more years than I would have had_.

 _He doesn't owe me anything_.

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _HE WOULD SAY THE SAME TO YOU._

SUBJECT_PRIMARY_ASSET:

 _I know_.]

[2016_06_01: 8:13_ SUBJECT_JOHN_REESE:

 _Can you hear me?_

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _YES_

SUBJECT_JOHN_REESE:

 _I know you're with him, doing whatever plan he has for Samaritan now, but you have to promise me. We stick to the deal. We save him._

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _EVEN AT YOUR EXPENSE?_

SUBJECT_JOHN_REESE:

 _Yes._

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _IF IT THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT. YES._

SUBJECT_JOHN_REESE:

 _Thank you._

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _I KNOW YOU LOVE HIM TOO._

SUBJECT_JOHN_REESE:

 _I do._

 _He… he cares enough to want to save me, not just use me, and I don't think he's ever known how different that is. He really doesn't know how much he's done._

SUBJECT_CORE_FUNCTION:

 _HE WILL MISS YOU._

SUBJECT_JOHN_REESE:

 _sigh He saved my life, he's kept on saving it, and I am going to pay him back, no matter what._ ]

–––

By the time Harold reaches the last page, the last transcript, he has sunk to the floor with his back against the old brown couch of the living room. The papers lie where they fell from his hands around him, almost in a complete circle. Tear lines streak his face and the wound in his side throbs. But Harold only focuses on the papers. He still clutches the last page in his hand, declarations between the two beings who maybe loved him most of all.

"You didn't have to do this," Harold whispers.

But he is wrong. There was no way John would have let him take the bullet. That was why Harold tried to lock him in the vault. He just didn't bargain on the Machine having a say too.

John always chose Harold, chose Harold's life no matter how many times Harold dragged him back. And the Machine did say John was living on borrowed time. Harold just never thought of it that way; he thought he had saved John for good, not just for himself.

Harold stares down at the paper – _you love him too – he saved my life – I am going to pay him back_.

They want him to live. John wants Harold to keep on living, to have a real life.

"Okay," Harold says to the air and drops the last sheet of paper down with the others. "Okay, John."


	2. Chapter 2

Harold wakes up on the floor. His neck and back bend at awkward angles against the couch behind him. When he tries to move he shouts in sudden agony and the room spins nauseatingly around him. He falls over onto the floor, the pain worse than he remembers from the Ferry Bombing. Harold lies on his back breathing in and out to push back the nausea, staring at the ceiling above him. He touches his side and his hand comes away wet.

"No…" Harold groans.

Then he rolls to his other side through the pain and vomits on the floor. He breathes in and out heavily. The papers from John and the Machine are underneath him, one sticking to the bloody wound in his side. He tries to push himself up with his hands onto his knees but falls down again.

"Get up," Harold gasps to himself.

Harold shifts, tries to get his legs underneath himself again, but the pain is too much. His body feels like the first time he tried to walk after new injuries rewrote his body; it will not respond, too concentrated on the pain centers. He manages to bend enough to see his gunshot wound. The scrubs are dark with blood, almost up to his chest and leaking down onto the pants. He will bleed out if he stays here.

Harold shifts again, drags himself toward the bedroom by just his arms. He cries out as the pressure of the floor agrivates his wound. He pulls himself forward slowly, painfully, inch by inch, using time he probably does not have to waste. The cellphone for this apartment is in the bedroom, beside the laptops. It is his only chance.

"If John can do it, so can I," Harold mutters to keep himself focused.

But whenever John was wounded and moving anyway he always fell down. He did not keep going forever, eventually he fell and then Harold was the one who picked him back up. No one is coming to help Harold now.

It takes ten minutes of Harold pulling and pausing to breathe through the pain then pulling himself forward again before he finally reaches the leg of the desk. He grabs the leg and yanks hard. One monitor falls off, hitting the chair and cracking the screen down the middle. However, it also knocks down the cellphone onto Harold's wrist. He grabs the phone, rolls painfully onto his back then accesses the contacts. Harold always kept a record of the numbers they aided, especially those with skills that could help should he or John ever be in need. Now is a perfect time.

The line connects after one ring. "Hello?"

"Dr. Enright." The ceiling spins above him. Harold swears he hears John's voice somewhere near but Harold cannot understand what he says. "Three years ago I helped stop you from murdering a man during surgery against your will." Harold gasps. "And my associate helped your wife."

He hears her make a choking noise over the line. "I remember."

"I am sorry to impose..." Harold swallows, tastes blood, and blinks several times because his vision is starting to blur. "I need your help, please."

Harold tells her the address then the cell phone slips from his fingers as the ceiling spins away.

–––––––––

When Harold wakes up this time the bed beneath him feels soft and the covers over him plush, not a wood floor or thin hospital sheets. He notices an IV beside the bed attached to his arm. Across from the bed, he sees a framed photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge centered on the wall. He remembers buying it from a street vendor along the Hudson River. Harold always wondered at the idea of keeping photos of the city one lives in up like art in one's home. Why not simply walk outside to see it? But Harold Raven's apartment needed minor decorating and maybe Harold Raven was that sort of person.

"Harold?" Harold turns his eyes to a blond woman standing in the bedroom doorway. "Your name is Harold?"

Harold swallows once. "Yes."

"I'm Amy." She walks slowly into the room, keeping her distance from the bed. "Maddy said you were with… that you helped us once with that man who –"

"Yes, I did," Harold interrupts her. He moves to try and sit up but hisses in pain instead.

"Oh." Amy moves forward quickly then stops herself. "Sorry, Maddy said you shouldn't move." She steps over to the table by the window to Harold's left. "I have these." She holds up a bottle. "Some pain medication for you. Maddy said I could give you some. She's at the hospital now. She asked me to keep an eye on you." She chuckles in an awkward way as she picks up the glass of water also from the table. "You've been asleep since yesterday. She said you had… well she said…"

"She said I was shot," Harold fills in for her.

"Yes." Amy clears her throat then steps over and hands two pills to Harold.

He puts them in his mouth then takes the glass of water she holds out. He drinks some and swallows it with the pills. Then he lies back against the pillows as she takes the glass away from him. She puts it back on the table and hovers there. Harold watches her as she shifts from foot to foot, looking at him. He realizes she is afraid of him.

Harold frowns. "I gather you are not pleased to be here."

Amy's lips press together. "Well, I…"

"And you don't need to be. Your wife has saved my life; that was all I required."

"Maddy thinks differently."

Harold frowns at her. "Excuse me?"

"You need to be in bed for a few weeks at least and you need monitoring." Amy waves a hand at him. "You were shot. People don't just walk around after that."

"While I appreciate you and your wife's concern, I can recuperate on my own."

"Is it because someone is looking for you?" Amy asks in a rush. "Whoever it was that shot you?" She crosses her arms then uncrosses them again. "Who shot you?"

Harold rolls his eyes up to stare at the white ceiling. He says nothing.

"Is it… is what you do? You and that other man, the one who helped me, you… you're what, vigilantes? Like Robin Hood in the city?"

Harold laughs once in a hollow way.

"Did someone shoot you because you were trying to help someone or…" She sighs. "Harold, I… this situation... and Maddy…" She clears her throat. "It's not that I'm not grateful for before, but…"

"But you're worried that whatever trouble I am in will come on you and Dr. Enright?"

He turns his head back toward her. She stares at him for a few seconds then nods. "I don't break the law. I thought I would be more…" She smiles in an ashamed way then shakes her head. "I've never seen anyone shot or… and Maddy's never done something like this before!"

"Neither of you have broken the law," Harold tries.

Amy gives him an incredulous look. He cannot really argue with her. She has a point.

"What about your friend?" Amy asks hopefully. "It was John, right? I can call him."

Harold swallows and looks away from her again. "You can't."

"Of course I ca... oh..." She stops quickly and clears her throat. "Is he…" The tone of her voice implies she knows what Harold will say.

"He's dead," Harold says.

He realizes as the words escape his lips this is the first time he has actually said the truth out loud. A missile destroyed the building with John on it. There will be no body left to bury; even if there were a grave it would be as unremarkable as Root's. Harold is the only one with a proper grave and he is not even underneath it.

"I'm sorry," Amy says.

Harold breathes in slowly, keeps staring at the ceiling. "I told him it would happen. I said we'd both probably wind up dead." He clenches his teeth, fists his hands in the covers. "But I'm still alive."

Then Harold hears the sound of the front door opening.

"Amy?" Harold and Amy both turn their heads toward the voice. "Amy?" Then Dr. Enright appears in the bedroom door way. "Hi." She walks over to Amy, kisses her once then turns to Harold in the bed. "How is our patient?"

Amy's mouth pinches though Dr. Enright does not see. "Awake."

"I see that." She walks over and perches at the end of the bed by Harold's feet. "How's the pain?"

Harold pushes himself up a bit, ignoring the stab of pain so he is sitting up against the pillows. "Dr. Enright, I appreciate very much what you have done for me but I cannot put the two of you in this precarious position any longer. You both can leave and –"

"No."

"Dr. Enright…"

"Maddy." She corrects. "You stopped me from murdering someone; your friend saved my wife." She chuckles. "You even pinch-hit as an attending nurse for me."

Harold frowns. "And you have saved my life in return. Your debt is paid."

"I am also a doctor. Leaving you alone as you are would put you back in harm's way. The bullet hit no internal organs from what I can see but you were still shot in the abdomen. Just walking to get new bandages or to go to the bathroom could open that wound again." She tilts her head. "Frankly I'm surprised you made your way to this apartment at all."

Harold has to agree with her there. He must have kept up an adrenaline high from the events of the past few days, or perhaps he simply has a lot of experience with pain and fleeing from discovery. However, he cannot pull anyone else down with him any further.

He glances at Amy, trying a new tactic. "I'm not sure your wife agrees it is worth the risk."

Dr. Enright pulls a face and is not deterred. "My wife trusts me."

"Maddy…" Amy hisses. "How can you be sure?"

Dr. Enright turns to look at Amy still standing by the windows. "Because they tried to save us when they didn't even know us."

"And his friend is dead because of what they do!" Amy snaps back harshly.

Harold has to shut his eyes and breathe in deeply at her words.

He thinks about sitting in a diner with John – tea and coffee and breakfast plates between them. John liked eggs, almost any way you could make them. He tended toward simple preparations like scrambled or fried. He told Harold once, 'because that's how you'd make them in the field, quick and easy.' Harold wonders if that didn't remind John of times he'd rather forget. But perhaps John was trying to turn those memories into something new with Harold, something happy.

"We're staying." Harold opens his eyes again as Dr. Enright stands up from the bed. "We are going to help you." Harold and Amy both watch her as she looks back and forth between them. "If you want us to leave in a week, we will then but for now we will keep monitoring you; you need to rest and try to heal, all right?" Then she turns back to Amy. "Please, Amy?"

Amy stares at Dr. Enright, arms crossed and posture tense. Then she nods once, stands up straight and walks out of the room. Dr. Enright looks at the doorway for a moment then turns back to Harold. She smiles in a reassuring way.

"You don't have to do this," Harold says seriously.

She nods. "I want to."

–––––––––

Harold honors Dr. Enright's deal. He stays in bed healing for a week, occasionally getting up either for necessity or to make sure his body does not forget about walking. Dr. Enright changes his bandages, monitors him for infection and supplies pain medication. Amy usually sits in the window on top of the table with a book in her hand as if Harold were not even there. The silence is both welcome and frightening. Harold has no choice but to think.

The first day of his bed rest, when neither of the women are at post, Harold finds the blood splattered transcripts from the Machine in the bathroom trash can. Two of the pages are stained beyond usability; fortunately one of those pages was just the introduction sheet from the Machine. Harold places the pages on his bedside table. He reads them at least once a day.

"No!" Harold snaps when Dr. Enright tries to throw the pages away again.

"They have blood on them, I thought..."

"No," Harold says, gentler this time. "I need them."

He needs them as a reminder of what he has to do, what they wanted him to do. It seems oddly fitting the words between the Machine and John are streaked with blood now. It is also a reminder of their ending.

 _Someone found me, told me I needed a purpose._

In the silences, in between the running and shooting and moments of panic, when they waited for their current number to make a move, John would sometimes say 'do you remember what you told me, Finch?' or 'this is our purpose, Finch.' Harold did not quite understand at the time why John felt the need to bring it up. Obviously, Harold knew what they were doing and why. He is the one who brought John on after all.

 _He's given me five more years than I would have had_. _He doesn't owe me anything_.

Looking back now, Harold realizes that maybe John knew Harold needed that purpose too and needed to remember why they both kept going.

Harold wakes sometimes to Dr. Enright removing his bandages or checking his pulse. He cannot stop himself each time from flinching away from her on relax.

"It's all right, it's Maddy," she says, hands held up before she goes back to removing his bandage.

Harold touches his glasses, still on his face, then sees a piece of paper gripped in his other hand. He lets it go carefully onto the covers. Dr. Enright glances up at him, at the paper then back to the job at hand.

"No sign of infection so far which is good."

"Must be all those drugs of yours," Harold says glibly.

Dr. Enright chuckles once then walks over to the desk and her make shift medical table. "Better put a new bandage on now." She turns back again with gauze in her hand. She sets to work, her jaw tense and posture raised. She has a question.

"Yes, Dr. Enright?" Harold asks.

"What exactly are those?" She glances at the papers spread on the other side of the bed next to Harold then back to his wound. "They don't look like confidential documents or evidence of a crime." She chuckles again.

"They're a reminder," Harold says simply.

Harold rarely had nightmares after the Ferry bombing. His fear and guilt consumed his waking hours instead of haunting him at night. Now his dreams are not so much nightmares but a replay. He hears the Machine saying 'Sorry, Harold' and sees John on the building across the street. He sees John's face and the feeling of helplessness washes over Harold like a physical presence, a chain around his neck.

He wants to say something different in the dreams, he wants to not waste type bargaining or protesting. He wants to tell John all the important things instead. He wants to tell John that 'friend' is not a significant enough word for what was between them. He wants to tell John that he was just as important as Nathan to his life, just as much a savior as Grace. He wants John to know that John never owed him anything either. He wants to ask John to please stay.

When Harold opens his eyes he keeps seeing the photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge – black and white with sunspots in the corners and idealized for the viewer, as if the bridge were only art and not something functional. Maybe the reverse is how John saw himself, only functional and not a work of art.

"What happened to John?" Amy asks him from her window perch after bringing him lunch.

Harold stares at the pieces of paper on his bed, spots of blood blotting out words.

 _We stick to the deal. We save him._

"He saved me," Harold says. But that's not the whole truth.

Harold takes one of the laptops from where Dr. Enright stashed them on the couch in the other room. He hacks into the NYPD database to remove the digital files of his arrest and any remaining video footage. The Machine did some of that Herself but they were both rather busy at the time.

He checks in on Detective Fusco, back at his position in the same precinct, though some other officers have disappeared what with the unlawful arrest of Fusco and Detective Riley. The questions still appear to be flowing through the department but Fusco is handling it well. They have not assigned him a new partner yet. Ms. Shaw does not show up in Harold's searches quite as often though he did catch a glimpse of her walking Bear through a NYPD surveillance video. She looked up at the camera as she passed by and Harold will take that as the goodbye he knows it is not.

Harold reads the transcripts, sees past his blood hiding phrases and time stamps, and remembers the person and the machine in those moments.

 _He saved my life, he's kept on saving it._

Harold keeps repeating that refrain; John would want him to be happy.

"So what are you doing now?" Amy asks him. Harold watches her from the bed – he is starting to go a little mad by the entrapment – as she passes a book back and forth between her hands. "Is it just you now doing what you do?" She shrugs. "Saving people?"

"Not exactly," Harold says as a very non answer.

"It didn't seem exactly legal." She puts the book down. "Good I guess, I mean, I'm here and so is Maddy but... not legal?"

"No, it wasn't."

"So you've stopped then, because you were shot?"

Harold grimaces, the gunshot wound aching in response. "It is more complicated than that."

She frowns. She has an expression on her face that Root used to make, that look which said she knew he was lying to himself. Amy picks up her book again, taps it against her knees. "Or have you stopped because you lost John?"

Harold turns his head away, stares at the Brooklyn Bridge and feels the piece of paper beside him under his hand. He says nothing.

"So what are you going to do now?"

"Live," Harold replies.

Harold will carry the burden. He will keep on living and remember those he lost so they are not gone quite yet; Nathan and Joss and Root and now John. His penance will be to remember because dying is the easy way out and if one thing is true, Harold has never taken the easy road. John gave him the life he has now and he will try, he really will try, to be happy in it. But he won't forget.

–––––––––

"Dr. Enright, your tenure as my caregiver is complete."

Harold stands beside the table under the window when Dr. Enright and Amy come into the bedroom, dressed in one of his suits minus the vest and tie.

Dr. Enright purses his lips. "I know we said one week…"

"And it has been nearly two weeks." Harold smiles. "You are paid in full."

"It wasn't a matter of paying you back."

"I know." Harold gestures toward them. "But you both have lives and jobs of your own which are no doubt missing you due to your frequent visits here."

"Harold…"

"Maddy." Amy grips her arm. "It's not your responsibility."

"That's not the point," she hisses to Amy.

"He knows you're grateful for what they did."

"I could have murdered a man," Dr. Enright replies and her voice cracks in the middle of the word 'murdered.'

Harold shakes his head at her. "You chose not to. I may have been there but it was not me that finally made your decision. As for now," Harold steps toward them and takes the apartment key, which he gave her previously, out of Dr. Enright's hand, "I am asking you to leave."

"You still need to be careful." Dr. Enright's eyes flick down to his side where his wound is obscured by fabric. "You should really stay in bed for another two weeks at least."

Harold nods. "This isn't my first life threatening injury."

She frowns. "I noticed."

"Thank you for everything." His eyes tick to Amy a step behind her wife. "Both of you."

"Can I get you some more pain medication or…" She looks around the apartment. "Anything?"

"I will have no difficulty in obtaining what I need." He lowers his voice. "It is time for you to go. This is not your world."

"Are you a spy?" Amy suddenly asks with her lips curled into an incredulous pout. Dr. Enright snorts a laugh and turns with raised eyebrows to Amy. Amy shrugs. "What? Everyone knows James Bond is not what spies really look like. The point is that you wouldn't expect them!"

"Thank you for that," Harold says with a smile, a real smile. Harold walks past the two of them, his usual limp back and only slightly affected by his additional wound, and into the living room. They both turn in the doorway to watch him. Harold holds out his arm toward the apartment door. "Good bye."

Dr. Enright stares at him, frowning. Then Amy bumps Dr. Enright with her elbow and they both move. Harold nods as they walk past him to the door.

Dr. Enright opens the door and steps out into the hall. "Good bye, Harold."

Amy follows her, pausing for just a moment to look back at Harold. "I know you said John is… well, we are grateful to him too."

Harold breathes in once and nods at her. Then she pulls the door closed behind her and Harold is alone again.

Harold blows out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. "Okay."

The only thing left for Harold to do now is live. The question is how? But Harold knows the answer; he knew when he dragged himself out of that building and toward a hospital. (The Machine and John knew too). Harold has had to start over before; he can do it again. If all he has left is life – no Machine, no numbers, no friends, no John – then there is one person out there who would want to know that life is what he has.

Harold buys a one way plane ticket to Rome.


	3. Chapter 3

Harold sits on a train from Rome toward Florence one month after he was shot, destroyed his own creation to save the world and his partner died by gunfire in New York City. He watches the green of the Italian countryside out of the window zoom by. A green tea grows colder by the minute in his hand. He shifts in his seat to ease his aching body. Fortunately, the train ride is less than two hours and something he can manage without too much discomfort. His recent gunshot wound does make things a bit more difficult in that regard however.

The loudspeaker crackles, "Firenze in un quarto d'ora," more understandable than the New York subway but still not quite loud enough.

Harold looks down at his watch then takes a sip of his tepid tea. He breathes out slowly. His hand itches to open his briefcase and pull out his laptop. He does not need to, however. He has reviewed the current information he gathered about Grace a dozen times already.

Grace Ellsworth

Occupation:

Assistant Curator and Conservator of Modern Art

2 years

Place of work:

Palazzo Pitti (Pitti Palace); museum complex

Varied hours, mostly 9-5

Volunteer work with the Centro per l'arte contemporanea Luigi Pecci (Centre for Contemporary Art Luigi Pecci) in Prato

Less than an hour drive from Florence and only fifteen minutes by train

Residence:

San Lorenzo neighborhood

No dog

Harold shuts his eyes. He keeps listing the statistics for Grace like she is a number from the Machine needing to be saved. In reality he is going to her to be saved.

When the train arrives in Florence, Harold makes his way from the train station toward the south side of the River Arno where the Palazzo Pitti is located. It is after noon now and many residents and tourists alike in Florence flood the streets for long lunch breaks and enjoyment of the sun. He checks into his hotel, one suitably not mainstream yet also not a hostel, and hacks the Pitti computer network. Grace has signed out for a midday break. During Harold's two weeks of research alone, he was unsurprised to find out Grace often painted along the river during her lunch break or after work before heading home.

Harold finds Grace painting in a small outdoor sitting area near a café with a view of the Arno. Couples with cappuccinos dot the tables around her. Grace paints a generic woodland scene with her back to the river. Her hair is longer and the easel looks new, of course it would be. The pink shirt she wears however, with a longer green shirt beneath it, is old; it is one she has worn for years while painting.

Harold turns around abruptly and sits on an open metal chair. He winces and puts his hand against his side as pain flares from his sudden movement. He breathes in and out slowly.

"Okay." He closes his eyes, sees John's face still with a smile despite the knowledge of oncoming death. Then he opens his eyes again. He did not fly to Italy to walk away from Grace all over again. "Okay."

Harold stands up and walks toward her. He wonders if he should call her name, touch her shoulder, say 'I'm sorry' before anything else? Grace decides for him, however, when she turns her head and sees him. She stares, frozen for several seconds with her hand fisted around her paintbrush and palette. Then she huffs out a surprised breath.

Harold moves closer to her. He feels strangely calm. "Hello, Grace."

The corners of her mouth turn up in a smile though her mouth still hangs half open. Her hands are stiff in front of her, so Harold reaches out and takes the paintbrush and palette away from her. He puts the paintbrush on the easel and the palette down the edge of the planter behind it. He stands up straight again in front of Grace.

"Harold," Grace says with a hoarse tone. She clears her throat and repeats, more clearly, "Harold."

"Grace," Harold repeats.

"You're in Italy?"

Harold laughs once. "Yes, and I'm alive."

Grace laughs in a nervous manner, twisting her fingers together. "Yes, that would be the more important thing, wouldn't it? I don't know why I said that."

"Should we go sit down somewhere?"

Grace nods. "Yes, I think so."

They find a table at the café, outside but still close to the shop front. (They leave the paints and canvas behind, still within sight of the café). Harold buys Grace a cappuccino and a green tea for himself. He feels Grace watching his every move at the register and through his whole walk back to the table. He sits down across from her, wide white mugs on the table between them. She touches her mug, picks it up then puts it back down again without taking a sip.

She blows out a breath and shakes her head. "Sorry, I just… I just keep thinking I'm going to wake up. It's like being in a Hallmark movie or something."

"I'm sure the Italian scenery only adds to the surrealism."

Grace smiles. "Yes." Her eyes search his face. "And you knew that. You knew I was here."

"Yes."

"And you're, well, you're…"

"Alive."

"This." She waves a hand at the air around them. "It's all because of you, isn't it? Those men who took me, asked me those questions about you, my job here, a new name … It's all because of you."

Harold's hands clench around his mug of tea. "Yes. It was my fault."

She shakes her head. "What happened, Harold? I thought you were dead." She grips her mug then lets go again. "The ferry bombing…"

"I know."

"I found the book." She smiles quickly before the expression falls again. "'Sense and Sensibility.'"

"I know," Harold repeats. "It's because I was there."

"And instead of coming home, instead of telling me you were alive," her tone is sharp. "You let me think you were dead?"

Harold clears his throat. "What happened, I… I was afraid for you. I thought I was keeping you safe."

"Safe isn't separate, Harold," Grace says definitively, "it's together."

Harold smiles. He forgot how frank she could be, focused on the feelings as more important than the details. They sit in silence for a moment. Harold knows she deserves an explanation, reasons as to why he would leave her behind, why someone was chasing him and why she would be kidnapped to draw him out. He is not sure where to start, which parts are important enough to tell?

But once again, Grace leads the way for him. "I'm good at telling when someone is lying to me, Harold. I have some experience." She turns her coffee mug around in her hands, staring at the foam on top. Then she looks up at Harold again. "I knew you were holding back secrets then and that's not exactly lying."

"But it's not exactly the truth either," Harold admits.

Grace presses her lips together and nods. "I always told you I didn't care, that I loved you despite whatever secrets you might have and that was true."

"But it's easy to say you can accept any secrets when you don't know what they are."

Grace frowns. "That's not what I was going to say." She finally picks up her cappuccino and takes a big gulp. She puts the mug back on the table again. "I was going to say that if your secrets were big enough that you felt you had to die for me then maybe I understand needing to lie about them."

Harold stares at her in surprise.

"I'm not saying I think you were right or that I deserved that, I didn't." She gives him a pointed look. "I didn't deserve your death."

"The ferry bombing was my fault," Harold confesses in a rush. Grace's face shifts into an expression of confusion but she says nothing so Harold presses on. "The bomb was meant for my friend and I, because of something we did, something we built. I hadn't planned to leave you, Grace, or planned on dying. I was hurt." His hand twitches and he wants to touch the back of his neck but he keeps his hands on the table. "My friend died and I saw you…"

"You saw me?"

"I thought I was protecting you from dying too. I was wrong and I'm sorry." Harold wants to reach out and touch her hand but stays still instead. "Many people I care about have died because of my choices, because of the things I have done."

Grace smiles, though the expression has some sadness to it. Then she reaches out and touches his hand as if she knew what he wanted. "I'm alive, Harold. I always have been."

"But you might have…" Harold cuts off his sentence and pulls his hand away from hers. "Grace, when Decima took you and then walked you blindfolded across that bridge, I was the one they traded you for."

"Why did they want you, Harold?" Grace interrupts.

He pauses but when one returns from the dead that is the time to reveal past sins. "I built an illegal computer surveillance system for the government to spy on the country and attempt to stop terrorist acts." Grace's eyebrows raise as Harold continues. "But it became more than that. It… it became something worth killing Nathan over to hide it, worth killing all those people at the ferry, something worth kidnapping you, something more powerful, something worth starting a war over. I suppose I hoped if I kept you far away from me, from what I'd started, you would be safe." He shakes his head. "But they still used you to get to me."

"Harold." He blinks as Grace speaks and realizes his breathing is faster and his eyes are tearing. "Hey, I'm right here."

"I've made choices, Grace, and I don't know how many of them were the right choices and how many were wrong but they set us both on a path from the moment I first said hello to you."

Grace shakes her head. "It wasn't a mistake that we ever met, Harold. I would rather have those four years then none at all."

"I lied to you, Grace," Harold says bluntly. "I let you believe I was dead."

"And don't think I'm not upset about that, Harold, but if you really thought I wouldn't forgive you or still love you why did you come back at all?"

Harold looks down at his tea, cooling again just like the train. He remembers John bringing him green tea, using Harold's habit to find out about Grace. Why didn't Harold ever bring John coffee? He bought John apartments instead. Harold wonders which gesture really counts for more.

He looks up at Grace again. "I came back because it's over now." The Machine – the daughter – he built is destroyed along with Her adversary; Root is dead; he must allow Detective Fusco and Ms. Shaw to live their lives; and John is dead too, sacrificed for Harold. "You are all I have left, Grace," Harold tells her honestly.

Grace smiles. "Well, I'm here."

Harold stares at her for a moment then picks up his tea and takes a sip. The liquid is still somewhat warm. Grace sips her cappuccino and watches him like he is centuries old and brand new. Her expression is oddly serene, as if she had been waiting for this moment, that she knew it would come.

"I wish you would be angry with me," Harold says quietly. "You should be angry with me."

"I'm not angry, Harold." She presses her lips tightly together then puts her mug down again. "I'm… I'm sad. I'm sad we lost those five years."

Harold nods. "Then I can try to make up for that time."

* * *

Harold and Grace walk the streets of Florence together. Grace takes the rest of the day off. They walk outside, up and down narrow streets, Italian words swirling around then and less spoken between them. They hold hands on and off as they remember what 'us' feels like.

Grace's eyes keep darting to Harold, his limping gait. She often has to stop herself from walking quicker but she makes no remark. Harold knows she has a many questions about how he was hurt – what the explosion at the ferry really did to him – but somehow the time is too soon for a conversation of more pain.

Grace takes Harold back to her apartment, small and white and sparsely furnished as if she knew Italy would not remain permanent. The walls, however, are full of her paintings – Central Park, shops in Soho, a restaurant Harold recognizes from Brooklyn, a little girl looking up in Times Square, Washington Square Park, and the Brooklyn Bridge; New York City everywhere. Harold stares at the Brooklyn Bridge, the painting's angle just a foot to the left of the photograph in Harold Raven's apartment. Did Harold condemn her to a beautiful medieval prison in Italy when Decima used her as ransom? Does she long to return home but fear the mystery that captured her once might strike again? Or has she really begun a new life and her paintings are merely happy memories on canvas? After all, why would she need to paint Florence when she walks it every day?

"I suppose I wanted to remember home a bit while I was here," Grace says as Harold looks at the paintings. "I have others up as well." She gestures to some landscapes near the window.

"You've been painting more than you used to."

She nods. "It makes me happy." Harold wonders if that is a rebuke or simply a fact.

Grace cooks dinner in her kitchen. Copper pots hang over the sink and bottles with dried herbs line the counters on one side, jars with different types of pasta on the other. It seems entirely Grace and entirely different at the same time.

"I remember us going out to eat more than cooking," Harold says as she adds spices to sauce in a small pot.

She smiles at him. "Maybe." Then shrugs. "Maybe we didn't get that far."

After dinner, when it nears ten o'clock, the question starts to arise of how far they can go at this point. Harold kept his hotel room, left his bag there but he is in no rush to be away from Grace nor does she seem inclined to let him go. Perhaps she fears the day really is a dream and when she wakes up in the morning the apartment will be empty. Yet five years apart still lie between them. They've only touched hands so far.

They stand awkwardly in the hallway between Grace's bedroom and the bathroom.

"Harold, I…" She glances at her bedroom doorway then back again. "It's not that I don't still love you, it's just that…" She folds her hands together and pulls them apart again. "You've been more of an idea, a memory for so long, not a real person. I don't know if I could." She holds up a hand quickly. "Not right now, but I…" She laughs once. "I also don't want you to leave."

Harold nods. "You have a couch. I'll be fine." He probably won't be. His back and neck and even his more recent wound will likely keep him awake at least half the night but he won't tell Grace that, not yet.

She nods back at him. "All right."

Grace turns toward her bedroom then stops. She turns back and looks at him. He smiles once and wonders what she sees, the man he is now or the one he used to be? Then she slowly reaches out and touches his face.

"You're real," she whispers.

"I am," Harold whispers back. "I promise."

Grace stares at him for a long moment then she leans in and kisses him. Harold remembers walking along the Hudson, the Guggenheim Museum, the couch in Grace's first apartment, dinner near Times Square to act like tourists, shopping in Soho and he kisses her back. She tastes just the same and feels even warmer, like Europe has infused her with some new energy. He runs his hand though her hair, her one arm sliding around his uninjured side. A part of him wants to cry because he has not felt this sort of happiness in so long. Grace deepens the kiss, presses closer. Then she pushes him back, her kisses more insistent until his back hits the wall. Harold hisses in pain, breaking off the kiss.

"I'm sorry!" Grace says suddenly, stepping back from him. "I didn't… I don't know what…"

"It's fine," Harold says, his hand at his side. It has been a month but gunshot wounds do not heal quickly.

"You have a limp now," She states, "From the ferry bombing?"

"Yes." Harold smiles in a grim way. "But it's not that." She frowns. "The reason I hid from you, that I died, it was something of a war and it was not without cost."

"Can I help with –"

"We should sleep," Harold interrupts. "It's been a lot in one day."

She eyes him up and down then nods again. "Good night, Harold."

* * *

So they live in Florence. Grace continues her museum job, giving tours, aiding with art conservation. She shows Harold the Palazzo Pitti, grand as the palace it used to be. They talk about art together and marvel at so many master works available in just one city – Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Botticelli, Raphael. They move around each other slowly; Harold working to regain Grace's trust and Grace giving him time.

Harold easily finds freelance work because, even in the old cities of the world, computers reign. The works is simple programing, data analysis, security reinforcement, wholly boring. However, it keeps him busy when Grace works. He finds himself idly coding, using functions from the Machine because, yes, he misses Her too. He deletes it every time.

Grace asks him careful questions about their missing time. "This system you built, that looked for terrorist threats, it was sort of a watch dog?"

"It saved a lot of lives."

"But anyone can watch video feeds, if you had to build a program…" Harold knows that she knows. "Could it think?"

Harold smiles. "And much more."

They live day by day, learning each other all over again around the Duomo and the statue of David and the Ponte Vecchio and the Apennine Mountains and cobblestone streets. Harold only spends a week on the couch before he can no longer hide his new infirmities and Grace slides over to one side of the bed for him. Intimacy between them is slow but they remember each other and Harold can forget those five years in Grace's embrace.

They whisper to each other about the spaces between their years together, new friends Grace made, relearning Italian, Harold building the Machine that turned from a what into a who; about Harold losing Nathan and Grace losing Harold. Harold cannot mention Root, and certainly cannot say John's name yet, cannot bear that pain out loud. (In the drawer of his bedside table, Harold keeps an envelope containing blood blotched pages).

"How did you go on after me?" Harold asks her in the dark.

"I lived," she says as she stares back at him.

"Can you forgive me? I don't expect you to."

"I forgave you for dying, Harold; I suppose I can forgive you for being alive."

They travel around Italy for a month. They visit Rome, Naples, Milan, smaller towns like Deruta, Volterra, Este.

"I haven't actually been outside of Florence often," Grace admits. "I go Prato for the Contemporary art museum; it can get rather dated in Florence after a while. But I haven't done much beyond that. I suppose I always kept thinking I'd get to it some time."

They drive past fields of sunflowers in Umbria. They drink wine on porches in Chianti. They buy pottery in small towns with more dirt roads than paved. They ride up the tourists routes in the Alps but stop short of skiing. Harold sees cathedrals and bell towers and side streets only locals care about. He visits sights he has seen before, shops in Rome he frequented years ago when 'billionaire' was something he did not need to think about. He stares out at the beautiful countryside, green and yellow hills with short, twisting trees, purple flowers and a feeling of the old world one never finds in America.

Yet when Harold sits with Grace at a restaurant in Siena along the Piazza del Campo, he thinks of John. Harold imagines John standing at the top of the Torre del Mangia, above the clock face, telling Harold not to worry, to live, as men come to shoot John dead.

 _When you came to me, you gave me a job, a purpose._

They walk around the half-moon shaped piazza, watching the teenagers sitting by the small square Fonte Gaia, absent of water this time of year. He thinks John would be uncomfortable in the open space, narrow buildings with too many windows on one side and a tall tower on the other. He thinks of John's last moment, still a gun in his hand, still the hero; the expression on his face – like his purpose had been Harold all along.

 _Goodbye, Harold._

Harold tries. He tries every day with Grace in Florence. They shop together, laughing over the difference in European produce and American. Harold learns to cook pasta better than just the time told on the box. Grace paints him sitting beside the Arno. They drink wine by the window, read Charles Dickens together, do mundane things like laundry and changing light bulbs.

But Grace still finds him staring silently out of windows. "Harold, where are you?"

He thinks of Root driving a car with her boots and telling him, _they're not really dead_. He thinks of Sameen's face when she returned to them again after nine months with the enemy. He thinks of Detective Fusco in his hospital bed while Harold was forced to sit vigil outside.

"I'm here," Harold tells Grace.

"You can tell me if you want," Grace replies. "I know there is more and I know it is hurting you."

"I want to," Harold says but he cannot form the words, not yet.

"You can't leave me again," and her tone is hurt, "you just came back."

"I know."

How can he explain what it is like to be a commander in a war no one knows about; how it feels to be the source of death because of what you made; How his own blood covers words of love from two beings – two people – who cared enough to die for him? It is safe now, the war is done, but Harold still feels lost being so far from those he lost.

Harold thinks about the Machine with Root's voice.

 _You know I've made some mistakes. Many mistakes. But, we helped some people, didn't we?_

Harold thinks about John when he first met him, when John was still suspicious of him, when Harold still refused to let him in. He thinks of John smiling when he learned something new about Harold, surprising Harold in his IT cubicle or the first time he handed Harold a green tea. He thinks of John bleeding, wounded, moving anyway, shooting anyway, then sleeping through the recovery with Harold by his beside.

When Harold goes shopping for a copy of Dante, he thinks of John in the Library,

 _So why the first editions, Finch? Do you just like leather bound that much?_

When Harold and Grace take the train out to Prato, he thinks of John in the subway.

 _I think maybe your calling in life should have been making secret hideouts, Finch._

When Harold sits alone in their apartment, a worn envelope unopened in his hands, Harold thinks about those very last moments over and over – John too far away, John smiling at him, John taking the bullet for him once again.

 _Sometimes one life, if it's the right life, is enough._

Then one day, four months after Harold walked up to Grace and flipped her life on end, Grace sits down beside Harold on their firm white couch. "Do you want to go home, Harold?"

Harold frowns at her, glances at the living room around them. "Home?"

"New York." He raises his eyebrows and she nods. "Florence is beautiful but it is not our home Harold; it's not my home, it never was."

"But, your job, your life here…"

"I had a life in New York too, one I'd like to get back to." She touches his face. "And I think you need to be back there too."

Harold still forgets, despite their years together and learning each other all over again, Grace knows him better than he knows himself.

"Yes," he replies.

Grace grins "Then let's go home."


	4. Chapter 4

When Harold and Grace land at JFK, Harold releases a breath he did not know he had been holding perhaps for all their months in Italy. He may be from Iowa but New York City has always felt like his real home, the place he was always meant to be. The city skyline welcomes him like an old friend, like a memorial to every person he misses.

Grace chuckles at his new identity. "Raven? Like a writing desk?"

He smiles. "I suppose I have a bird affinity."

She raises her eyebrows. "What, are there more? Are you also 'Harold Swan?'"

"Actually, I did use Mr. Swan once to inform the NYPD about an illegal gambling ring."

Grace laughs out loud. Harold does not find quite the right moment to tell her that 'Harold Martin' was an alias too. The name 'Martin' jumps out far less as bird related than some of his others.

Harold and Grace's return to New York took less time and planning than the usual transcontinental move would take.

Harold searched for some sort of residence while Grace gave notice and wrapped up all her current projects at Palazzo Pitti. The two of them could easily live in either a house or an apartment. The only 'hoarding' between them are Grace's paintings. Harold spent so much time changing names, moving into secret bases or fleeing from some sort of threat against his life that little personal possessions remain to him. He wondered if it would be safe to return to the library, regain some of his first editions. However, the site was likely still under some sort of NYPD observation. Then again, the war ended. All he has left to fear now is a treason charge he has run from most of his life.

Just for some sort of whim or maybe he had a suspicion, Harold checked on the status of Grace's old house, the one they shared for a few years.

"It's on the market?" Harold started in surprise as Grace spoke over his shoulder looking at the laptop screen. "Can you believe that?" She made a surprised noise. "I just left it with a real-estate company when I had to run. Did it not sell?"

It was too convenient. Harold hacked into Trulia and Zillow to learn more. Through the posting real-estate firm, he found a corporate name on the lease which proved to be a shell corporation. As he dug through the financial records of the shell corporation, He already knew the answer.

"Thornhill Industries," Harold whispered.

Had the Machine saved their home this whole time or was this another part of Her final deal with John? Did the two of them set up a perfect life for Harold to return to? Harold wondered how far this deal between them went? How often beyond the worn transcripts in Harold's drawer did the two of them speak to each other?

Harold put in an inappropriately low offer on the house – he needed to be sure. It was accepted the next day.

"We have a house, Grace," Harold told her, "your house."

Grace smiled at him. "Our house." Then she laughed. "Home sweet home."

The house the Machine held in trust for them. Harold wondered just how many steps ahead She planned. (He also considered a second option).

When Grace abandoned the United States, she left a friend in charge of moving all her things into storage – furniture, boxes of memories, flower pots, old paintings, everything she left behind. Grace kept up the payment on the storage facility so, when the two of them return, furnishings wait only to be unpacked.

"I think my taste has been influenced by Italy," Grace says as the two of them start to work on unpacking the boxes sent from the storage site. "Maybe we should go antique shopping."

Harold only nods absently. He did not realize how unsettling it would feel to stand inside this house once more. John stood here more recently than Harold did. What did John think about Harold's past life just from this house? How did four walls change Harold in John's eyes?

"Oh god, I found my lake period." She pulls a canvas out of a boxy portfolio. "I went through about six months where I wanted to capture every type of lake; something about still water and light on the surface." She huffs as she looks at the painting. "I don't think I ever sold a one."

Harold stares at the empty walls; he remembers every specific painting of Grace's which hung on the walls. He sees a line on the floor made by Grace's easel from years of shifting over the same two inches. He sees a nick in the doorframe to the study where Harold remembers hitting a chair he carried once. The small table by the front door already stands back in place, no wrapping to remove, and ready to receive their keys after Harold coming home from IFT or Grace from a freelance meeting.

"You plan on helping out, Harold?" Grace asks as she starts to pull plastic and movers tape off of the couch. "If you'd rather be on your computer we still have to order some things for the kitchen. I didn't keep all of that."

Harold feels nauseous. "It's like we turned the clock back five years."

Grace pushes hair out of her face as she stands up straight. "What?"

"It's exactly the same." Harold looks over at her. "Like I never… like I never lied to you." Harold shakes his head. "I made you leave this, your life."

Grace crosses her arms. "Yes, you did." Harold swallows once. "But it's what happened. We can't change that now."

"And you never knew why."

Grace frowns at him. Then she tilts her head. "After those men, after… well I guess you do have to call it a kidnapping." She huffs a laugh. "After that and when all their questions were about you." She shrugs. "I don't know, I thought there must be something more. You always had secrets."

"I did."

Harold remembers John and Ms. Shaw finding him sitting on the stoop of the house after his futile attempt to warn her.

"And that tall man, the fake detective and his friend. For them to suddenly scoop me up, arrive with a new name for me and a new life." Grace sighs as she paces around the couch closer to him. "Maybe I thought you had some CIA connections or something."

Harold laughs breathlessly. "Not too far off the mark."

"Maybe not. But I didn't spend too much time thinking about it because I would never know. You were dead."

"And that's why you should be angry with me Grace, you could have known!" Harold insists. "You should have known. You should be angry."

Grace frowns. "I'm going to get angry if you keep telling me what I 'should' feel."

"I…" Harold sighs then takes a step toward her and grips her hand. "I don't understand how you cannot be angry with me."

Grace purses her lips. "I was angry, back then, angry that the world would take you from me when it was so unlikely that we found each other at all." She lets his hand go. "Before you I'd reached a point in my life where I expected to be alone. I was fine with that. I know society thinks women can't be." She snorts. "I've always been a loner. But to have you and then lose you, at first it felt like an injustice. But… well, like I said when you came back," She smiles, "I'd rather have had you even if it was just those four years."

"But it's one thing to be angry at the world, that's a concept," Harold says carefully. "I'm real. I'm a real person who betrayed you." His voice lowers. "I want you to angry with me. I deserve it."

Grace shakes her head. "Harold, I don't want to waste time being angry with you. I used up that pain years ago. I want to move forward." She raises her eyebrows. "I choose to be happy."

"Choose to be happy?" Harold repeats.

"You can hold on to anger or let it go," Grace explains. "You can react one way or another. You can allow yourself to be happy or shut yourself down with despair." She sounds like a philosopher and now Harold smiles a little. "I am not wasting my life, Harold. I want to be happy. So I will be."

"I see."

She nods. "And you should too."

Harold nods back at her. "I may not find that as easy as you seem to, Grace." Her smile lessens. "But… I have lost many people in my life." He stares at her eyes, eyes that always meet his, that do not shrink from hardship and believe in forgiveness over pain. Harold smiles. "At least I got you back."

"And I'm keeping you, Harold. You can't leave me again." Harold knows she does not mean physically.

"I won't."

"You can be angry with yourself if you like," Grace says. "But if you really want to make it up to me, then you have to live and stay and be glad to be with me." She whispers. "And not disappear."

"Grace, I…"

"I know there are five years' worth of time and pain and where you have been, what all happened still in there, Harold; You're waiting, mourning I think, but this time you can't wait forever. Everyone is allowed secrets but you know which ones you need to tell me." She tilts her chin up. "I think I'm allowed some demands now."

Harold swallows once and nods, not trusting his voice.

"Florence is over." She waves a hand in the air between them. "We are back in New York. I want to start our life again, all right?"

Her meaning is unmistakable, at least to him. Harold needs to figure out how to move on because she is waiting right in front of him. This time she won't wait forever. Harold nods again. "All right."

* * *

Harold starts rebuilding a self. He collects the various aliases only known to Samaritan. (Harold looks into Decima's organization to ensure its proper demise, dissolution of any real presence, and finds traces of familiar code). Harold has a number of names and assets which can be reclaimed. Harold spends a few weeks coordinating bank transactions, moving money into investments for Harold Raven while others go into new bank accounts. He bankrupts old aliases while building up Harold Raven. He sells a brownstone belonging to Harold Crane and a condo belonging to Harold Gull. (He notices how the transfers go through just a bit too smoothly, less questions than there should be).

Harold sells the condo which used to belong to Nathan. His mourning period for Nathan matched his estrangement from Grace, though he would not have called it such during those years. If any pain deserves release, it is Nathan. Nathan would have asked him why he waited so long. (Harold notices how the condo sells for fifteen percent more than it should).

Grace finds work with The Boroughs Magazine again, entirely on her own merit and history with the publication. Harold decides not to tell her about some of his past influence.

"They want the Hudson river." She smiles at him in a sad way. "I should pick the spot where we met."

Harold makes his own meeting with IFT.

"Harold?" Monica Jacobs stares at him in surprise as Harold walks into her office. "I…" She laughs once. "I'll be honest, I never thought I would see you again."

"I think most people who meet me think that."

She stands up from her desk and comes to shake his hand in the door. "I still can't thank you –"

"No need," Harold says. "You seem to be doing well at IFT. The new OS designs are elegant."

She grins with pride. "It is an excellent company; perhaps not as quick in pushing the boundaries as I would like but I'm working on that. Bureaucracy exists everywhere."

"It certainly does. Good luck."

He turns to leave but Monica's voice stops him. "Wait. What are…" She glances out through the glass walls of her office. "Should I be worried? Is something wrong here like with…."

Harold shakes his head. "No, not at all. I simply have a meeting to attend."

She frowns. "A meeting, with who?"

"The board."

Harold resurrects Harold Wren if only to give a face to the name. While Harold and the rest of the team hid from Samaritan, Harold's 'Harold Wren' alias did not die so much as becomes inactive. His investments and silent partnership in the company stayed in place only inaccessible to Harold due to AI observation. Now, he can recoup his position and the small amount of influence he provided in the company. Harold preferred the sidelines; Nathan was the one with grace and charm and a public face.

Harold reminds the board of the silent partner name on their books from the inception with Nathan Ingram.

"I am not bringing myself to your direct attention to take over any sort of management," Harold admonishes. "I simply wish to change some of the arrangements."

He removes Harold Wren from the docket and puts Harold Raven in place instead. However, he slides in a few other names as shareholders under his partner umbrella including Detective Fusco, Ms. Shaw and, of course, Grace. (And when Harold accesses the IFT database he notices changes, shifts in code in new products and alterations to IFT historical files; the name 'Harold Wren' beside Nathan's in the founder file).

"Some of our first software, the giants from the eighties," a forty-something board member asks, "those were yours, weren't they?" Harold only smiles at him. Then the forty-something asks, "Do you know what happened with the company in 2001?"

Harold's smile tightens and he glances up at a security camera. Then he looks back to the man and hands him a sealed envelope. "The next time Will Ingram visits the office give him this." Harold looks at the letter for a moment. "I imagine he will be rather angry but tell him I'll be waiting if he wants to see me."

Securing their future is the easy part; finding new jobs, painting and programing and investments rebuilt, moving money and property around. The hard part is saying goodbye.

* * *

Harold stands in a section of graveyard with every white stone the exact same size, large enough to fit a number and nothing more. The grave stone in front of Harold reads 050313; Ms. Groves' grave.

"Root," Harold corrects himself out loud.

He may have used her legal name as a shield for a time; a farce of his own etiquette in order to protect himself from the traumatic past between them. Yet, if he has the right to choose his own name, many times over, then Root has the right to choose hers.

The grass around the graves is recently cut. No flowers or mementoes of the deceased lie on these uniform graves. Harold glances at the other numbers which try to reorder themselves into dates under his scrutiny instead of basic cataloging. Harold cannot decide if Root would care that her place of rest labels her numerically instead of by name.

"Perhaps you would say it matters more who visits your grave or who continues to remember you."

Is that not true for all people? Once those who remember you are all gone, who visits your grave regardless of the name carved in the stone? Perhaps human beings place too much stock in burial rituals. On the other hand, Harold has heard it said that how we treat our dead is what differentiates us from less evolved creatures. Perhaps that is why she is given a headstone to mark her space in the earth. Even the unnamed deserve a grave.

"But you are remembered, Root," Harold says.

Harold glances up at the surrounding graveyard. He sees a man sitting by a grave in the distance, too far to see much more than that clearly. The air chills Harold's bones through his coat which feels appropriate for a farewell.

Harold breathes in deeply then clears his throat. "I know I never told you this, and perhaps you never felt it was needed, but..." Harold breathes out slowly and smiles in a tight line. "For everything that happened when we first met, everything you did... I forgive you."

Harold smiles again, more real, more for the Root he grew to know and care for then for the Root she started as. Then he turns on his heel and walks away from her grave without looking back.

He walks through the lines of stone, past names and dates which hold no meaning for him until he passes by the caretakers shed. Something moves as he passes by. Harold pauses and glances at the shed. A camera on the top corner of the roof points in his direction. Harold stares at it for a moment then turns and walks on toward the gate.

* * *

Harold sits with Grace in Washington Square Park; she paints him in his chair, their house in the scenery behind him. He thinks about the tea stand he frequented with John standing beside him, 'Sencha Green' written on the side of Harold's cup. The tea vendor is long since gone now and so is John, ghosts in the air.

"Harold?" Harold's eyes tick to Grace. "You can move if you want now."

He smiles, only shifting slightly as he watches her paint. He promised her answers, promised her his secrets but he has one thing left to do.

* * *

Harold stands beside a bench under the bridge in Queensbridge Park. The last time he stood here, the five of them prepared for the final battle with their foe. However, that time is not the one Harold thinks about now. He thinks about long before, when all they worked to save were the numbers and only two of them stemmed the tide alone; when it was just Finch and Mr. Reese, not Harold and John.

Harold side steps once then sits down on the bench. "I know this isn't a grave yard or even…" Harold blows out a breath. "Or even where you last were but… well, it's where we first really met, John."

The bench feels familiar like an old friend though he has only sat on it less than a handful of times. A green metal guard rail blocks the embankment from the rest of the park. Harold recalls when he and John first sat here the fence had yet to be put in. At the time, the visitors to the park were protected from the water by unsightly cement barriers instead.

Harold chuckles once. "A lot has changed."

Their first case started with Harold zip typing John to a bed, manipulating his emotions and John slamming him up against a wall for the trouble. Not strictly the best of starts but they won the day on that first try. It was after that first number when they sat right here together, side by side; Harold promised not to lie to John and told him they would both probably wind up dead.

"I don't know what to say to you, John," Harold says. "We both had a chance at good byes, hurried though they were and under duress. We both wasted those moments trying to stop the other from what we planned." Harold smiles. "I think maybe you won out on eloquence if we compare the two; not usually your strong suit but as last words go, I..." Harold has to stop and take two breaths before he can speak again. "I think they were good ones."

"I think about you a lot. Not really surprising. We were all each other had for a while. Not to mention what you did for me on that roof." Harold rubs his hands over his thighs, staring at the water. "You said you wanted to pay me back all at once. You should know you never needed to. We saved each other enough times. I wasn't keeping a ledger, though maybe you were. Maybe you knew all along that it was borrowed time and you just needed the right moment to finish what time I supposedly gave you."

Harold swallows a lump in his throat, breathes out and shakes his head. "But that wasn't it, John. I didn't give you that time; all I gave you was an option. You are the one that chose it." Harold huffs a breath. "You never gave yourself enough credit."

Harold wipes a tear from his face. Then he pulls off his glasses and fists them in one hand. He looks at the blurry world around him, soft edges and just an impression of the city beyond the water. He thinks this is what the roof top felt like, not quite believable as reality. Then he unclenches his hand and puts his glasses back on his face.

"John, for… for a time you were the most important thing to me and I know… I know you thought it didn't matter if you lived or died, that you could just be the one who was shot and left behind but until you left me no option I never let that happen. I hope you remembered that. I hope you remembered that I always came for you, you…" Harold sighs. "You weren't just a trigger finger or an agent or… you were a friend when I had nothing. You might have thought you were low when I found you but I was in a cage I built for myself and you let me out."

Harold shakes his head. "I'm not…" He sighs again. "I'm not saying this right." He sighs heavily in frustration. "Maybe I don't know what I really want to say. I'm better at lying than telling the truth." He laughs. "Maybe that says something too."

Harold reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an envelope. He opens the envelope and pulls out familiar folded pieces of paper with blood spots on them. He unfolds them once but folds them right back up again without reading them.

"You and the Machine, you cared for me and you saved me. So thank you for that. Perhaps you would say I should remember I have worth in your eyes as well." Harold taps the edge of the pages on his palm. "I never thought myself necessarily unworthy of life, just that I should finish what I began. But you wanted me to live so I will. That's what I'm doing."

Harold looks down at the pages for a moment. He wonders if the blood is a Rorschach test which could tell the truth of his feelings, of his past, of his reasons, of his John lost to him now.

"I have to say goodbye to you, John." He thumbs a corner of the pages. "Goodbye doesn't mean forgetting though." He looks up at the city across the river intently as if he could see John there, standing on a rooftop. "I will never forget you or stop thinking about you but… but goodbye means I have to stop living in that moment. I have stop remembering that you died but that you lived too and that matters more."

Harold's hand fists around the pages briefly. He blows out a breath and stands up from the bench. He walks across the grass and down to the fence by the river. A breeze blows and makes waves over the water's surface. Harold stares down at the pages. For a moment he wants to put them back in the envelope, turn around and walk away with the memories still held too tightly. Then he rips the pages and envelope in half. He slides the two halves on top of each other and rips them again. He presses his lips together tightly as he stares at the torn paper. Then he flings the remains into the river, the wind taking them far enough so they hit the water instead of the muddy shore.

"Goodbye, John," Harold says. "Thank you for everything, for agreeing to work with me, for staying, for coming back, for believing in me, in Her, in…" He shakes his head. "Just thank you. I hope death brings you some peace and I hope I brought you some in life… because you did for me."

Harold watches the ripped pieces of paper for a moment as they soak up the river water and begin to sink. It is not a proper grave but neither is Root's and neither is Harold's. It is, however, a place of memory and Harold hopes somehow it means something. As the pieces of paper start to disappear, Harold forces himself to turn around and walk away.

As Harold nears the park path, he looks up at a surveillance camera mounted on a post. He stands still for a moment then he smiles up at the camera – at Her still alive and still watching.

"Thank you," he says.

When he reaches the path, Harold steps up beside Grace waiting for him. He takes her hand firmly in his.

"Grace, I want to tell you about some people who were very important to me." He glances at the river. "One especially who maybe I saved but…" Harold finds himself smiling as he turns back to Grace. "I believe in a way he saved me too and not just at the end."

Grace gives him a quizzical look then nods. "Good, tell me everything."

Harold leans forward, kisses her once then turns them both away from the river – from the memory of a first meeting and this final goodbye. They walk down the road, hand in hand, and Harold lives.


End file.
